Prey Instincts
by taylorpotato
Summary: The first time it happens, Will can't be sure he's not hallucinating. But it seems like Hannibal is offering to be his Dom. Or at least, he's offering to treat Will like a dog. Take control away. Help his mind go blank. Give him exactly what he wants. The story picks up some time in the middle of the season, after Will starts losing time. Read author's notes for warnings. Slash.
1. Leggiero

_Fair Warning: there's smut. In this chapter, mostly just masturbation, hand feeding, puppy play, and choking. But also this story is just all kinds of fucked up. We've got emotional/psychological manipulation. Mental illness/Will's condition. Hannibal being an exceedingly shitty therapist. Extreme sadism and masochism. Past abusive relationships. Violence. Pretty much Will just wants to be treated like a dog. And he's horrible at saying no (therefore suggestions of **dub-con**). Discussion of murder/cannibalism. Nobody helps Will Graham. But he doesn't die here, at least. Um… enjoy with caution?_

* * *

The first time it happened, Will couldn't be sure it wasn't a dream. True, he was sitting in Hannibal's office. They'd been calmly discussing his dogs. Specifically, a new one he'd found. He felt _aware_, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. He'd been losing time left and right.

"Another stray, Will," Hannibal smiled and shook his head. "Soon you're going to need a bigger house."

Will shrugged. Because he'd already given all the common excuses. _If I didn't take them in, they'd starve. I'm better at relating to animals than people. They make me feel safe._ He got this feeling, that Hannibal already knew without him having to say it. That he admired dogs for their utter simplicity. All they wanted was to eat, to run through fields, and to be occasionally given some attention. No ulterior motives. No lurking darkness.

When he thought about things from a dog's point of view, he went instantly slack and calm. Almost pliant. Almost happy. If he could just block out everything else, all the crime scenes, all the blood and pain of the world, and only spend time around dogs—he might reach a state of existential nirvana.

Sadly, nobody wanted to let him do that. And it was a weird thing to say, wasn't it? I just don't want to see _people_ anymore. Please never bother me again. Leave me alone so that I can only spend time around animals and get some goddamned peace.

"You're smiling. What are you thinking about?" Hannibal raised his wine glass and sipped it casually. That was a thing. Whenever Will showed up at a session late, they'd open a bottle. All good stuff. Will drank it for the taste. Because it was expensive, and he'd feel bad refusing. But the numbing effect wasn't awful either.

"You know, how simple everything is for animals," Will said carefully. "Sometimes I wonder how we even got so complicated as a species."

Hannibal nodded, waiting for Will to continue. That was all he had to say. All he wanted to say. So they sat in not quite uncomfortable silence.

Will didn't want to talk about any cases. Didn't want to talk about the fact that he was slowly but surely losing his mind. At that particular moment, he just wanted to sit. To just be. Will Graham. To be certain about it.

But then Hannibal leaned forward and the atmosphere of the room shifted ever so slightly. Will made the mistake of flicking his eyes up from the floor to meet those dark, expansive orbs that sat inside Hannibal's skull… and for a moment, he got swallowed up. Floating in dead space and trapped at the same time.

"Tell me, Will," Hannibal said in that calm, calculated, oh so soothing voice, "do you ever have the desire to revert to a simpler state? Perhaps you long to go back to your childhood?"

Will snorted. "Childhood isn't simple. We only think it is because we forget what it was really like."

"True, I suppose. So what is it that you long for?"

Will chewed over that for a moment, looking down into the wine glass. He felt fuzzy. Not quite real. He glanced down at his watch. At least the numbers weren't melting. Probably a good sign. It probably meant he was awake.

"Could it be," Hannibal's voice got even softer, "that sometimes you wish you could inhabit the simplicity of an animal? To be fed, and cared for, and just allowed to exist?"

"That would be ridiculous." Will hunched over in his chair slightly. "I'm a grown man. I don't need somebody to take care of me."

"Perhaps not. But you can _want_ it."

Will blinked. No. This was almost certainly not real. Not the way Hannibal was looking at him. A strange hunger lurking just behind his features—it reminded Will of the way people used to eye him when his friends still tried to drag him out to clubs. Always, the tall, strong, bulky men. Those would be the ones who cornered him. Stared at him like they wanted to eat him. Licked savage kisses out of his mouth, made him burn up from the inside out… they'd call him _bitch_. Like a dog. They were predators and they could sense his fearful desire. Sense that he just needed a collar around his neck and everything would be fine. White noise. Placid tranquility.

"I'd like to try an exercise," Hannibal finished his wine and set the glass aside.

"I'm tired of drawing clocks," Will smiled in spite of himself. Aware of the way his body was responding to Hannibal's tone of voice. They way he folded in, trying to make himself appear smaller. Some perverse sort of defense mechanism, that actually made him just that much more enticing to would-be hunters.

_Prey. I am prey. And he's realized it._

Will shook himself. Tried to close those particular mental latches. Because he hadn't been acquainted with that part of his personality for such a long time. Not for years. He liked it too much, and it was bad for him.

The problem with pure empathy is when you can see your abuser's point of view and think that everything they're doing to you is perfectly reasonable.

Most Doms were gentle with him. Sensed that he wouldn't ever say no, even though he had a safeword, and limited themselves. Other ones, though. Well, they figured a lack of protest was as good as permission.

He still had the scars all over his back. From the time he'd let himself be whipped bloody and then some. He almost lost consciousness. Had to go to the hospital. God, he'd loved every minute of it.

"Will… are you still here?" Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

"Yes." Will snapped back to attention, holding back the _Sir_ that wanted to jump from his lips. He was drunk. That was it. How had that happened? Hannibal had refilled Will's glass a few times, but still. He didn't think he'd become that much of a light weight.

"Come here," Hannibal smiled, "and sit down on the floor."

Will resisted the urge to obey immediately and without question. Because that was the kind of urge that tended to get him in trouble. The kind of urge that kept him saying yes, when he really should say _stop_.

It was the same urge that had him still working for Jack, that kept him inhabiting the minds of vicious killers, even though he knew it was driving him almost completely out of his carefully constructed sanity.

"Why?" He raised an eyebrow and tried to look nonchalant.

"I want you to sit at my feet and try to occupy the mental space of a dog for a little while. I think you would find it soothing. Perhaps anchoring."

"You're joking," Will forced a laugh.

"No. I'm simply offering what you want so that you don't need to embarrass yourself by asking for it."

Will swallowed hard.

Maybe this was one of _those_ dreams. Where Hannibal was hot and naked against him. Violating him in all the best ways. He had the hands for it. Large and muscular. All strong, hard planes against Will's thin frame. And his voice… so sure. So confident. Low and sweet and utterly terrifying.

"Am I hallucinating?" Will asked aimlessly. Because of course, if he were dreaming, the figments of his own fevered mind wouldn't provide him much help.

"No. Your name is Will Graham. You're sitting in my office. It is approximately eight-thirty. And I have just given you a command. Do you plan on following it? I'm not fond of repeating myself."

Will's hands shook slightly. But the rest of him felt so bizarrely calm. Like a little fawn, trapped in the floodlights of a roaring semi-truck.

Better, braver, saner men would have told Hannibal Lector that this was definitely an inappropriate breach of a doctor/patient relationship. That even unstable people knew the difference between a psychological exercise and something that bordered on unsavory.

But Will Graham stood up, took the few strides to close the distance, and plopped down on the floor. Cross-legged, leaning his back against Hannibal's chair. Because this was almost definitely a dream, and fuck it, Will might as well enjoy himself.

He felt the weight of Hannibal's hand on his head. Relaxed all the muscles he hadn't even known were tense, as Hannibal began to slowly card his fingers through Will's soft, brown curls.

"You're a good boy," Hannibal said almost absently. It wasn't a put on. Not overt or sexualized, the way it sounded when other people said it. No. It was _exactly _the way Will talked to his dogs. And that fact alone sent an odd shock of heat through Will's body.

They sat like that for some indeterminate amount of time. Will's mind went completely blank. Like somebody turned on the radio to static and just let it play. He only resurfaced when Hannibal stood up and offered him a hand. He let Hannibal pull him to his feet. Stood in a daze as the other man helped him into his coat.

"I think this was a very productive session," Hannibal smiled.

Will noticed, not for the first time, how incredibly sharp and wonderful his canines looked in the right light. He could imagine them sinking into his flesh far too easily.

And just like that Hannibal ushered him out of the office, and Will was on the other side of the door, wondering what had just transpired.

* * *

The second time it happened right after a blank space. One minute Will was working on his fishing lures, and the next, he was on Hannibal's doorstep. Hannibal looked a bit confused, but happy to see him.

"Ah, Mr. Graham. I wasn't expecting you, but come in. I was just sitting down to dinner."

Will crossed the threshold, because he felt dizzy. Because all the colors were surreal. Because Hannibal had told him to.

He allowed himself to be led into the dining room. Hannibal had a hand on his shoulder. But for some reason it didn't seem possessive or threatening. His touch felt gentle. Careful. The way you'd hold a piece of delicate glassware.

The table was set for one. A candle lit. The food smelled delicious. But Hannibal did not disappear into the kitchen to fetch another plate. No. Instead he led Will up to the head of the table and nodded to the floor next to his chair.

"Sit," he said firmly.

He didn't wait for Will to obey. He simply sank down into his chair and resumed his meal as if there'd been no interruption.

Will stayed standing for a few moments. But then he remembered that Hannibal didn't repeat himself. That each order would only be issued once. No coercion. He could either take it, or leave it. Hannibal would not force the issue.

Perhaps it gave him the illusion of safety. Perhaps it was a type of manipulation specifically tailored to Will's particular condition. Whatever the reason, Will found himself sitting on the floor before he could even really think about it.

"Good boy," Hannibal said it in the same tone as before. He gently patted Will on the head. Then he ate in silence for a little while.

Will watched Hannibal eat and an odd feeling curled in his stomach. Some bastard child of lust and starvation. He couldn't remember the last time he had a meal. If Hannibal didn't bring him food, he often didn't cook. Didn't eat. Forgot about it.

But as much as he wanted to stare at the food, he found himself watching Hannibal's face instead. Because Hannibal wasn't looking back at him. It was safe to study. The wide, broad bones, angular jaw, hint of wrinkles around the eyes—everything about him screamed dominance. Control.

The kind of man you could surrender to so fucking easily. Will almost slipped off thinking about it. Those hands wrapped around his neck. Those lips whispering in his ear. _It's ok Will, I'll take care of you, just relax._

He shuddered slightly. Blood rushing to the surface of his skin. Making him feel overly warm.

Hannibal set down his fork and picked up a cut of lean meat with his fingers. It looked like pork. Sliced thin, covered in a dripping red sauce. Hannibal moved with grace and complete certainty. He held the piece of food directly in front of Will's mouth without even looking down.

"Go on," he said softly, "you're hungry."

This wasn't right. He was a _man_. Not a dog. He shouldn't sit on the floor and accept tidbits from the table. He shouldn't allow himself to be hand-fed.

But god, he wanted it.

He parted his lips hesitantly and bit down on the meat. It tasted as wonderful as it smelled. Plum sauce? Something like that. He took another bite. And another. And the meat was gone. Hannibal wiped his fingers on a cloth napkin and picked up his fork again. He took few more bites before selecting another piece of meat for Will to eat.

This time, after Will had eaten what Hannibal offered, the other man didn't draw his hand immediately away. He left it in front of Will's face. Fingers still dripping in sauce. It seemed almost instinctual, for Will to flick his tongue out and lap at the liquid, to lick Hannibal's fingers clean.

Hannibal didn't react. Didn't shove his fingers further into Will's mouth and tell him all about what a nasty little whore he was. No. He just waited until Will was done, then the meal went on.

He fed Will quite a few more scraps. Sometimes pausing to let Will suck on his fingers. Other times drawing away. Nothing said. For the most part, Hannibal seemed to ignore Will's presence, in the exact same way one would ignore a pet. It was thrilling. It didn't make sense.

Will had often wondered if perhaps his sexuality consisted of numerous crossed wires in the pain and pleasure centers of his brain. He liked feeling humiliated. Liked being hurt. But this… this was something else entirely.

He felt utterly at peace, and yet, his cock was hard, pressing shamelessly against the fabric of his jeans. He felt elated and tranquil in the same breath. Eager and content.

Hannibal finished eating and sat back in his chair, sipping his glass of wine. Before very long, he cleared the table, helped Will to his feet, and sent him back out the door, into the cold. Not so much as a squeeze. A kiss. An explanation.

Later that night, in his own bed, Will couldn't help it. He wrapped a fist around his cock and stroked himself languidly. Savoring it. Imagining Hannibal's thick, certain fingers—his surgeon's hands. What would they feel like buried inside him? Teasing him open?

The tension built slowly. Will's fantasies became a bit more feverish.

Hannibal's teeth ripping into his flesh. Thick cock pressing inside him. The burn of being too full. Freefall. Can't take it. Too much. God. More. Yes. More.

Will may or may not have grunted Hannibal's name as he came all over himself. He should have felt ashamed. Should have felt something besides the blanket of calm that settled over him.

He was fucked.

* * *

The third time—god help him—Will was looking forward to it. He fucking anticipated it. And things were so much worse. Because Hannibal just sat there, across from him, not doing anything. The office buzzed with the utter silence. The unspoken words of every book on every shelf rang in Will's ears.

But he wasn't going to say anything. He couldn't. What if he really had imagined it all?

"You seem agitated tonight," Hannibal offered, smiling as always. "Something on your mind?"

"Everything," Will answered flatly.

He shifted in his chair. Felt the weight in his coat pocket. The collar—thick, brown leather with a heavy silver buckle. Usually it stayed under his bed. In a box. And sometimes, he'd just take it out and look at it. Maybe put it on and drown in memories for a little while.

But it had been ages since he took it out of the house with him. Not since that night at the hospital. When he made himself promise. Never again.

Really, he hadn't meant to bring the collar. Just to look at it. But he'd put it in his pocket before he could stop himself. He'd fingered the soft leather the entire drive over. Fantasized. Wanted.

Fuck.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and took a few deep breaths. Tried to stamp down the wild fire that burned in his belly.

"I feel like I'm spinning out of control." He said every word calm and measured. Or at least, he tried to. But it all spilled out kind of frantic.

"And why is that? Have you been loosing time again?"

"No… well… yes… but that's not why."

"Then why do you feel out of control, Will?"

"It's because—I've been wanting things. Things that are bad for me."

"Drugs? Alcohol?" Hannibal raised his eyebrows. "I don't need to be worried about you hurting yourself, do I?"

"No," Will breathed. "It's more that I want other people to hurt me."

"Yes. You are a masochist. I'm aware."

The words settled between them in perfect stillness for a moment. And then they crashed like a tidal wave. Will felt the flush rise in his cheeks.

"Well, it's not healthy. Right?" Will blurted out, grasping at straws. "I shouldn't want that. I shouldn't _want_ to be abused."

"You're right. But that's not what you really want, Will. You want to be owned. Controlled. Put in somebody else's care. There's a difference."

Will gulped down air. He'd never felt quite so detached from reality. But at the same time, he hadn't felt so _alive_ in years.

"What do you mean?" He asked carefully.

"It all makes perfect sense. You feel powerless over your own sense of identity, so you want to place the responsibility for your well being in somebody else's hands. The pain is another matter. But I think its more the intensity of the sensation that you're attracted to. It's not that you want to be hurt so much as you want to dissociate. To check out of your mind and revel in your own physicality. What you feel is a logical survival instinct, considering what you deal with on a daily basis."

Will blinked.

At best, when people found out about his odd little proclivities—they took advantage. At worst, they called him a pervert. Unstable. Screwed up. Wrong.

And there was Hannibal. Psychoanalyzing him. And for once in his life, Will didn't hate it. He actually felt relieved.

"As your friend, I'm here to help you any way I can." Hannibal sat up in his chair just a little bit straighter. "If you feel the need to put control in somebody else's hands, I would gladly accept that responsibility. But is that what you really want?"

Will wondered, not for the first time, if his life had just become one long drug trip. It felt similar to the time he'd accidentally taken LSD. Nothing made sense. Non-linear. Non-continuity. Shapes and colors. Highlights and shadows that were just a little bit too sharp to be real.

"Are you saying that you'll fuck me?" Will laughed. But really, it wasn't a joke.

"No. I'm saying that if you wish it, I can try to provide a healthier outlet for your masochistic impulses. I can take control away without hurting you, or letting you hurt yourself."

The words tumbled around inside Will's brain. It sounded reasonable. Then again, these sorts of things usually did. In his current state, he would probably have agreed to anything.

Except.

"What if I asked you to fuck me?" He barely whispered it. Stared at the ground while he said it. Because god. He didn't actually just say that. Did he?

"I would have to refuse, Will. I'm afraid it would damage our working relationship."

Will didn't say anything else. He couldn't trust himself to open his mouth. Instead, he dug into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the collar. He pulled it out quickly and tossed it onto the table beside him.

"What's that?" Hannibal nodded, staring. Of course he saw exactly what it was. Must be part of the game.

"My collar," Will mumbled.

"Would you like for me to put that on you?"

Will nodded, listless, resigned.

Hannibal stood. Confident, measured steps. He picked up the strip of leather in those large, strong hands and he carefully looped it around Will's neck. Fastened it quickly. Mechanically. Will barely had time to revel in the sensation.

Then he felt the familiar, vague weight on his skin. Settling down. Allowing him to let go. Hannibal patted him on the head.

"I'm going to sit at my desk and finish up some work. You can sit beside me until you feel ready to go home."

Then Hannibal strode away. Sat down and began to draw. Will followed after a few minutes, settling onto the floor at Hannibal's feet. He leaned against the chair. Hannibal's hand came down to rest on the crown of his head.

"You're a good boy, Will. Everything will be ok."

He wanted to believe.

He wanted to believe so fucking badly.

His head spun, and his cock throbbed, hard and angry about being ignored. He still didn't know whether he was awake or asleep. But it didn't matter. Because just then, he wasn't responsible for himself. He didn't need to worry. He could just be. The dim electrical humming of old appliances. The wind in the trees. All the wonderful noises in the world that weren't words. All the sounds that didn't mean anything.

* * *

Sometimes Will would show up at Hannibal's house. He'd sit on the floor, and Hannibal would hand-feed him his dinner. Then afterwards, perhaps Hannibal might relax on the couch, read a book, while Will sat at his feet.

Other times, Hannibal would come to Will's house. Cook him a meal. Allow him to eat it with silverware. Afterwards they might go on a walk. Some days, Hannibal would simply keep his hand wrapped around Will's ropey bicep. Other days, they'd actually use a leash. Either way, it sent twisted little thrills through Will's nerve endings.

He was more at ease than he'd been in a long time. And yet, he felt wired. Full of potential energy. He masturbated a hell of a lot more frequently. He couldn't help it. The more distant and calm Hannibal acted, the more he _wanted_.

It was torture. It was wonderful.

The next step came because Will's car broke down in Hannibal's driveway. No point in calling a tow truck till morning. Hannibal didn't offer the guest room. Instead, he made a nest of blankets for Will on the floor—right at the foot of his bed.

Will was all nerves. Hardly slept. Tossed and turned the night away, thinking _what if_. _What if I just crawled up into bed with him? Would he be angry? Would he kick me out? Or would he finally fucking touch me?_

But of course, Will stayed on the floor until morning. He was, after all, a _good boy_. He'd been well trained by a lot of brutal masters before he'd ever met Hannibal. He'd never dream of disobeying an order, bit it implicit or explicit.

Hannibal rose with the sun and made breakfast. Will got his food in a bowl, set on the floor, next to the table. He ate quiche without using his hands. Food caught in his beard. Smeared across his face. When he finished, Hannibal cleaned him up with a warm towel.

After that night, the nest of blankets stayed at the foot of Hannibal's bed. A silent offering. A gesture that said Will was always welcome, even if he didn't always stay.

But he found that he slept on Hannibal's floor more often than he didn't.

* * *

"Will?"

"Yes?"

Will blinked. Like waking up from a dream. Everything swam for a moment before it came into focus. He was sitting on the floor in Hannibal's living room. Like he had been when he zoned out.

Still undressed. Because he'd slept there the previous night. And he hadn't bothered to put his pants back on. Hannibal didn't seem to mind if Will was just in a t-shirt and briefs. In fact, his gaze lingered just a few seconds longer than it usually did.

"Are you uncomfortable?" Hannibal nodded downwards.

Oh yeah.

The problem with just being in your underwear, is you can't really hide an erection. Will wasn't sure how long it had been there. But it throbbed. Ached. _Touch me_.

"Um… a little bit. But it's fine."

"You know, it's quite all right if you want to take care of it. You have my permission," Hannibal's gaze had already dropped back to his book.

Will sat there for a moment, wondering exactly what he should do. Because it would be awkward, right? To jerk off right there. In the same room as the object of his twisted little desires. Just the thought of it… well just the thought of it made the problem a whole lot worse.

Because Will's cheeks burned with humiliation, and that just made him harder. He had the collar on. He'd been drifting in and out of sub-space for almost twenty-four hours straight and it was too much to handle.

Really, he didn't make decisions anymore.

Not when Hannibal was around.

So, if Hannibal said it was ok, then who was Will to argue? He had permission. Everything would be fine. Everything would be wonderful.

He trailed his hand carefully up his thigh, breath catching with the sensation. Even if Hannibal wasn't watching, Will could _feel_ the other man's presence. Looming. Like a mountain in the distance. Will slipped his hand underneath the elastic band of his briefs and wrapped a fist around his cock. One slow stroke. He bit his lip.

"Undress yourself. Leave the collar on," Hannibal's voice drifted casually.

Will looked up. The other man's eyes were still fixed on his book. The order was clearly for Will's benefit. To help him along. He peeled off his t-shirt and tossed it aside. Then he wriggled out of his underwear, leaving him completely naked. Exposed. His heart raced, pounding in his throat.

"There is a tube of lubricant in the top drawer of the side table," Hannibal offered in the same tone as before. All business. All detachment. Will's blood felt like molten lead.

But he scrambled on his hands and knees, over to the side table, placed by the end of the couch. He slid the drawer open and grabbed the tube of KY.

"Lie down on your back, and finger yourself." And with those words, Hannibal's voice changed ever so slightly. Still casual, but more firm. More like a command than a suggestion.

Will shuddered and obeyed immediately.

He sprawled out on the carpet, feet on the floor, knees bent. God. It had been a while since he'd done anything like this. But he unscrewed the lid and squeezed some of the lube onto his hand. Slicked his fingers. Warmed the stuff up.

Will let out a long breath. Then he put a hand down between his legs. Trailed a finger between his ass cheeks. And maybe, he imagined it wasn't his hand. It was Hannibal's thick finger. Circling his hole, teasing, flirting, but not quite pushing in.

Maybe Will let out a little choked noise when he pushed an index finger past the first tight ring of muscle. Because that first intrusion always felt a little bit weird. A little bit not right. But he tried to relax. Squirmed his finger around until he found _it_. That tense little knot of nerve endings that made everything ache in the good way. That sent a little shock of pleasure rocketing through him when he grazed across it.

And yeah, ok, he gasped.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," Hannibal's words drifted down from above. Like the words of some obscure deity. Some vaguely interested higher power.

"You, Sir," he breathed without thinking.

"Me doing what?"

"Your fingers stretching me open, getting me ready for your cock."

"I see. And why is it that you want me to penetrate you?"

"Because it would feel like you owned me. It would feel good."

"But Will, I already own you. And you feel good right now, don't you?"

Hannibal's foot came down on Will's chest. Shoe and all. Pressing just enough weight to be uncomfortable. Will moaned, and slid another finger into himself.

"I want to give you pleasure, Sir," Will stuttered breathily.

"This is pleasing me... I think what you really want is my approval. You want to know that I find you attractive and worthy of attention. I do, Will. You are a beautiful pet. I just can't make love to you, because I wouldn't be able to control myself. I would hurt you."

"But I like being hurt."

Hannibal's foot pressed down into Will's ribcage just a little harder. Will's fingers nudged against his prostate again, and he couldn't hold back the little keening noise.

"You wouldn't like what I would do to you," Hannibal said softly, "now go on. Stroke your pretty cock for me. I want to see you orgasm."

He didn't need telling twice. Will fisted his cock with rapid, jerky motions, rubbing against his prostate and panting. The tension built somewhere deep inside him. At his very core. The tingling ache spread. Every nerve sang a sweet little song of torment.

Too much. Not enough. Fuck. Shit. God damn it.

He crashed. Burned. The wave of pleasure swept over him. His cock jerked, spitting little stripes of come across his abdomen. His internal muscles clenched around his fingers. Everything slid out of focus for a moment.

He opened his eyes. Hannibal's book had fallen to the floor. The larger man stared down at him the way a wolf probably looked at a lamb before snapping it up in one gulp.

"I think you should get cleaned up and go home to feed your dogs, Will. They're probably hungry."

"Yes, sir."

But Hannibal did not move his foot. He still had Will pinned to the ground. And it didn't seem like a good idea to struggle. The moment might shatter. Something in the back of Will's head squirmed with terror at the thought of it.

For the first time since this had all started—he felt the danger of it. The panic lurking under the surface. Because really, he'd let Hannibal do anything. He'd never say _stop. No. I don't like that. _

He'd lie back calmly, as Hannibal took him apart with a whip, or a belt, or even just his hands. He'd sigh peacefully as his blood spilled out across the floor.

Powerless.

There was a difference between being subjugated and being cared for. So far, Hannibal had been doing the later. But the spark in his eyes said a lot about how quickly that could change.

"One day, Will," Hannibal smiled. "I'll ravage you. But not today."

Will nodded meekly.

Hannibal slowly lifted his foot and allowed Will off the floor. He dressed quickly and left. Everything felt irregular and frantic. Adrenaline. Anticipation. Fear

* * *

Will stayed away for a while. But not too long. He felt pulled towards Hannibal by a magnetic force. Like a little moon, drawn in by something with a much larger gravity.

Hannibal kept himself aloof. Will kept his clothes on. They did the usual things. The feeding. The walks. As they settled back into a comfortable place, Will even started sleeping on Hannibal's floor again.

"Do you still think about me when you touch yourself, or have I scared you away from the idea?" The question drifted across the breakfast table.

Hannibal had showed up at Will's house early, carrying a bag of groceries. He cooked Eggs Benedict, along with a variety of different vegetables and a few thin slices of bacon. Absolutely delicious.

Will chewed his food carefully and addressed his coffee mug when he spoke.

"I still think about you." Silence held for a while. Will finished eating. Hannibal cleared their plates and began to do the dishes. He always insisted on such things. Liked to clean up his own messes.

"You know, the amount of power you give me is intoxicating. You're so trusting. I worry about it. Because you would let me do terrible things to you."

"Yes."

"It takes an incredible amount of self control not to ruin you, Will Graham. I want to. But I can't. I'd consume you entirely. There would be nothing left. I fear I would do you irreparable damage."

"You wouldn't be the first. You've seen the scars," Will mumbled.

"I want to open them up again. Change each one. Make it mine. I want to cover over every mark that someone else has left on you. Claim you entirely. But I'm not sure you'd survive it."

Will blinked. Because even though other people had inflicted serious injuries on him, it had always been a heat of the moment accident. Nobody had ever been conscious of the fact that they wanted to hurt him badly enough to kill him.

But Hannibal calmly dried off each dish, and placed it on the rack. He gazed at Will with those eyes, like black holes and deep space. It made every mechanical function accelerate. Will's breathing. His heartbeat.

Awake? Asleep? Did it matter?

He felt like pure horror. A mess of anxiety and elation. The crime scene that started out as a romantic night in. Will blinked and saw himself on a metal slab. All carved up. Pieces of him missing. A bite mark out of his neck in the shape of Hannibal's teeth.

He didn't want that.

Did he?

He opened his eyes and Hannibal had gotten a lot closer. Crossed the kitchen so he stood over Will's chair. In his space. The word _cornered_ floated across Will's brain.

Everything happened like a cubist painting. Disjointed. Cause and effect jumbled.

A large hand came down to rest on Will's shoulder. Another one in his hair. Fingers tangled, forcing his head back, yet cradling him gently. Like a precious thing.

Hannibal breathed Will's air. Their faces were so close. Almost touching. And then time froze. Slid sideways. Their mouths pressed together, just barely brushed against each other. It was nothing like being eaten alive.

But it made something deep and dark lurch in Will's stomach. Almost hunger. Not quite. Something primal. Something hot, wet, and vivid.

A few more careful kisses, then Hannibal's tongue flicked out. Gently traced the crease of Will's lips. And of course, Will opened up. Offered himself up for consumption.

Their tongues tangled. A complete electrical circuit. Sparks of pleasure flickered, almost foreign in their intensity. Will made a small noise. Hannibal's fingers tightened in his hair. Around his shoulder.

Hannibal wasn't sloppy. He handled his power with the utmost caution. They kissed slow and deep. No rush. They had all the time in the world. Will's head spun. His skin prickled. A rush. Like drugs. Like the best fucking kind of drugs.

Adrenaline. Oxytocin. Dopamine. All singing through his veins. Screaming _yes_. His cock twitched, starting to fill out in his jeans. His skin burned. He wanted, no, _needed_ more.

Will reached out blindly. Placed his hands on Hannibal's broad chest. Pitiful. Imploring. He ran his fingers down Hannibal's lean torso. Stopping at the line of his belt. He paused, hesitated. Maybe that was his mistake.

Because just as he'd approached, Hannibal pulled away. Smooth, calm, collected. He left Will panting. Sweating. Dizzy.

Hannibal smiled gently, "I've wanted to do that for some time."

And will opened his mouth. To say something idiotic. _But… sex… please… want._ He closed his lips. But he couldn't quite control his impulse to wrap his fingers around Hannibal's hips. To look up at him with wide eyes. To present himself as vulnerably possible.

"You're quite the oddity," Hannibal chuckled, cupping Will's chin and running his thumb over the younger man's plump lower lip. "So ready to give yourself up, yet so very fearful. Do you like to be scared?"

"Maybe."

"Well then. Perhaps I can give you something that you want after all."

Slow, gentle, Hannibal's hand slid downwards, wrapping around Will's neck. He tensed. And for a moment everything came into focus. The sizzling tension stretched out between them in the silence.

Then Hannibal squeezed. Compressing Will's windpipe, making it impossible for him to breathe. Will didn't struggle. He sat placidly and accepted his fate.

First his face felt hot. He felt his blood throbbing. Rushing around. Frantic. Then his extremities began to tingle. The panic gripped him. But he still didn't squirm. He just looked up at Hannibal's blank expression.

Strange elation. Giddiness. Everything began to go fuzzy at the edges. Hannibal tightened his grip, adjusted it slightly.

"Can you feel that, Will? Your life is in my hands. I could destroy you. I could let you exist another day. It's all in my control. _You_ are completely powerless."

Such words shouldn't have sent such a burning pang of arousal through him. But god. They did. The world swam. Perhaps he'd go unconscious. He had three minutes before brain death would start to occur.

His lungs ached. Screamed with a lack of oxygen. He couldn't do anything about it. Even if he wanted to fight… Hannibal was much larger. Stronger. He'd already be weak from the lack of air.

All he could do was trust.

The fear washed over him. Because there was no concern in Hannibal's expression. No affection. No elation. Just utter calmness. Perhaps warped fascination. His mind frantically spun out. What if Hannibal decided to just watch him die?

He blinked, trying to stay focused. The panic buzzed into an eerie silence. No thoughts. A blank piece of paper. Will slid into the dark for just a moment.

Then Hannibal let go.

He caught Will as the younger man sagged off his chair. Held him steady. Almost like an embrace. Hannibal's breath sounded ragged and heavy in Will's ear. Perhaps he wasn't quite as unaffected by the moment as he'd seemed.

"Thank you," Will whispered. "For not killing me."

"What?" Hannibal pulled back. Looking at him. There it was. Human again. Appalled that Will would say such a thing.

"For a moment it seemed like you might," Will mumbled. He felt tired. So tired. Even though he'd only just woken up.

"Isn't that what you wanted? To believe I would? To really be scared?"

Will nodded listlessly.

Hannibal planted a small kiss on his forehead. They stayed like that for a long while. Hannibal bent down, arms wrapped around Will's torso, just breathing together.

Will looked at the clock above his sink. The numbers stayed steady. He probably wasn't hallucinating. He'd probably just kissed Hannibal in real time. But even with the older man's warm body pressed against him, he still wasn't _sure._

* * *

_Well, there you have it friends. My first shot at Hannigram. I hope it lived up to all your twisted expectations :D_

_There's definitely at least another chapter of this, where actual sex ensues. I'm not sure when that will go up. But you can watch my profile for news about updates or you can follow me on tumblr (taylorpotato . tumblr . com)._

_Reviews, follows, and favorites are oh so sexy._

_xoxo_


	2. Stringendo

_Fair Warning: this story just keeps getting more screwy. If you don't want to read any hints of gore, skip the middle section. It's flashback of Will's childhood, and the first time he realized he can empathize with serial killers. I don't know why it happened in the midst of porn. I've stopped asking myself these questions. Also, the lemonade has arrived. Sex toys, and hand jobs. And I don't know... simulated drowning? Is that a kink? Or did I make it up? Pretty much, Hannibal almost drowns Will, and if that would bother you, don't venture forth. This story should be re-titled, "the number of times Hannibal can flirt with killing Will Graham before something really bad happens." Enjoy!_

* * *

Even when the world tilted on a strange axis, and Will felt foggy, feverish, he could find comfort in open spaces. Large empty fields. Forests. As long as he had the dogs with him, he felt safe. Everything else was a jumbled confusion. But this—he knew this. Walking felt simple, rudimentary. Just one foot in front of the other, over and over again, until he got somewhere.

The dogs ran in circles. Snorted, barked, rolled around in the dirt. Chased after scents. Enjoyed the pale morning sunlight.

Will just kept walking into the vague distance.

Sometimes he thought about going into the wilderness and not coming back. More so during the summers, but the thought didn't entirely push away, no matter what the season.

He thought about packing up a tent and a sleeping bag. He could fish. Catch his own meals. Just keep walking, cooking on open fires, staring up at clear skies. He got his feeling that maybe if he walked long enough, he could leave behind all the dark things in his head. If he walked long enough, maybe he could forget about Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Forget that he'd taken a life. Forget about the nightmares that chased him, stalked him, watched and waited for him to crack.

But of course, when he let his mind wander, it also ended up in other interesting places. He thought a lot about Hannibal. He probably dwelled a little too much. Hannibal was an anchor. In a lot of aspects, he tied Will to reality just a little bit more. But he also had the potential to drag Will down beneath the waves and drown him.

Will wasn't sure whether he wanted to drown or not.

Part of him had always been interested in crawling downwards. Exploring the deepest, darkest holes of humanity, just to see where they went.

After all, he studied madness. Occupied sadism. Tried to understand exactly what made monsters tick. In understanding them, he stopped them. Caught them. Saved the lives of innocents.

But the curiosity belonged to him and him alone. If he didn't have that initial spark—that fearful attraction to the twisted, filthy depths of the human condition—he would have never ended up working for the FBI in the first place.

Sometimes, Will felt like he'd spent his entire life trying to hold himself together. Trying to maintain some shred of normality and decency. Trying to fit into a world that would never understand him,

Sometimes Will wondered what would happen if he stopped trying to stay collected, and just let himself fall apart. Crash and burn. Go completely over the edge. Become a train wreck in slow motion.

These were the sorts of things he should probably tell somebody. If not Hannibal, then maybe Alana. But he'd always found an interesting poetry in the act of self-destruction. And as long as he was just _wondering_ about falling apart, rather than actually doing it, he figured everything would be all right.

As all walks ended up being circular, eventually Will found himself back on his own porch. He wasn't necessarily surprised to see Hannibal's car in the driveway. Just like he wasn't surprised to smell something delicious cooking when he stepped through the door, holding it open to let all the dogs in.

The dogs liked Hannibal. They liked him because he fed them. But also, perhaps they sensed that he was the alpha of the pack. He seemed to have a calming effect on them. They'd all curl up in the living room and wait until he whistled before running in the kitchen to scarf down whatever leftovers he poured into their bowls.

Hannibal had his back towards the doorway, wearing a simple, white shirt, and black slacks. Leaning over a frying pan—he exuded control. Comfort. Will felt an odd pull towards him. He had to resist the urge to press up against him and soak in the perverse feeling of safety. The feeling of slipping under the surface and being utterly content to take a lungful of water if it meant inhabiting such a relaxed ease for the rest of his short life.

A box sat on the table that hadn't been there when Will left. The younger man cleared his throat. Hannibal did not turn around.

"You've been so well behaved lately," he commented in that casual way of his, "I figured you deserved a present. Happy masters bring their pets toys, do they not?"

Will didn't respond. It was a rhetorical question, and Hannibal wasn't pedantic about such things. He didn't scream and threaten violence if Will didn't answer promptly when spoken to. In fact—Hannibal had never handed down a punishment for anything. Will had never given him cause for it. There were no formal rules, and Will followed even the lightest of implicit suggestions.

The balance of power was fragile, mysterious, and beautiful. Will didn't understand it. He didn't know what would happen if he questioned it. He just knew that he didn't feel the slightest impulse to rebel. Hannibal never pushed him anywhere he didn't want to go.

Other Doms had used pain as a means of control. Hannibal used his lack of brutality as a steering mechanism. His power rested in not giving Will the things he craved. His control over Will stemmed from a control over himself, from his own restraint.

Part of Will died in agony every second he went not touching Hannibal. Not reaching out and taking what he wanted. But most of him felt he could go on like this forever and be deliriously happy with the arrangement.

"Wash your hands and sit down at the table. You may open the box after breakfast," Hannibal's voice drifted low and smooth.

These days, Will often obeyed without registering it. He ran his hands under warm water, with a tiny dab of dish soap, then dried off on a paper towel, and sat down at the table. He took the collar out of his pocket—these days he always kept it in his pocket—and fastened it around his neck. It wasn't long before Hannibal set a plate in front of him. French toast and sausage links, with a sliced orange. He also placed a mug of steaming coffee, sugar, no cream, by Will's hand.

Will didn't even have to think. Everything already there for him—he ate slowly, savoring each bite. Hannibal sat across from him, nibbling at his own breakfast. Peaceful silence stretched between them. This sort of thing had become routine. Will liked routines and the sense of familiarity they bred. With a routine, you didn't have to wonder what was happening. It became instinctive. Any time he could spend not thinking about the future was wonderful.

"You look rather pale today. Did you sleep?" Hannibal asked as he raised his mug of coffee.

"Not well," Will responded mechanically.

"Was it nightmares, or a fear of having them that kept you awake?"

Will cut his remaining food into equal sized pieces and ate half the orange before he responded. "I dreamed about the Hobbs cabin. I threw myself onto a pair of antlers. Bled out all over the floor while he laughed at me from the corner."

"I see," Hannibal nodded.

"The weird part was the sensation of being impaled… it almost felt…" Will trailed off.

"It wasn't painful?"

Will shook his head. Ate three bites of sausage. Drank a sip of coffee. "It felt kind of good. Like… release."

The corners of Hannibal's mouth quirked upwards into a smile. "I think perhaps your sexual frustration is twisting the metaphors of your dreams. Being impaled and being penetrated aren't so very different in the end."

Will flushed. He hadn't even realized the implications of what he'd said. But it made sense. God. Kind of a dire state of affairs wasn't it?

"You know you're allowed to touch yourself, Will," Hannibal offered matter-of-factly. "I understand the current arrangement is difficult for you."

"It doesn't really help," Will mumbled into his mug.

"Did you find it satisfying to masturbate while I watched?"

Will's face burned at the question. He stared pointedly down at his plate and squirmed. Because _yes_. That had been wonderful. But it had also been so very frightening.

"It's ok, Will," Hannibal said softly. "I've spent quite a bit of time thinking about our little problem. And I think I've come up with a solution that will work for the both of us."

The younger man nodded. He couldn't bring himself to make eye contact. But he did want to _trust_. To believe Hannibal would take care of everything. So far, it had been true.

He finished eating what he could. He always felt bad, leaving food on the plate, but Hannibal never commented. Will's appetite had decreased. His stomach capacity had shrunk. The rest went to the dogs, no questions asked.

Will sat and waited while Hannibal did the dishes. He drank his coffee. Looked towards the window. Let himself slide into passivity until he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

"Go on, then," Hannibal squeezed gently, "open the box."

Will reached forward for the long white box. Made of cardboard, but sturdy—tied shut with a length of black ribbon. Will tugged at the ribbon carefully, watching it unfurl, before grasping the lid of the container and lifting it. He stared for a few moments before registering what he was looking at.

A dildo. A big one. Not one of those garish, pink, plastic affairs. No, it was made of silicone. Flesh colored. Oddly realistic. A small remote lay next to it. The gears spun. Ah. So not just a dildo—but a vibrator.

"Do you understand?" Hannibal asked softly.

"Yes, Sir. I think so. Thank you," Will said breathlessly.

"Go to your bedroom and prepare yourself." Hannibal reached down into the box and grabbed a hold of the remote. "I'll be there shortly.

Will wrapped his fingers around the dildo and stood carefully. He took measured steps out of the kitchen. After all, he didn't want to look _too_ eager. But once he was out of direct sight, maybe he rushed a bit. Down the hall towards his bedroom.

His blood raced around nervously. He stepped through the doorway and began to undress, throwing his shirt, jeans, and underwear in a clumsy pile by the closet. Naked except for the collar. If they were at Hannibal's house, he might have folded his clothes. Arranged them in a neat little stack. But Hannibal had never complained about the mess in Will's bedroom before and he didn't want to waste any time.

He tossed the vibrator onto the bed and fell back on the mattress beside it. He reached out for the drawer on his nightstand. He pulled out a tube of off-brand lube and flipped the cap open. Squeezed it out into his hand, slicking it across his fingers.

It was difficult to be patient, do it right. But he did his best. He shuddered at the feeling of one finger sliding into his hole, and he added the second one too quickly. The stretch burned a little bit. But soon his muscles relaxed.

His cock throbbed. His cheeks felt overly warm. He must have been a sight, sprawled across his tangled sheets, naked, with two fingers up his ass. But he was past the point where he really felt much shame about these sorts of things. Any residual embarrassment only threw gasoline onto the blazing wild fire in his chest.

He stayed at that threshold for a while. Scissoring his fingers. Trying to focus on relaxation. Acceptance. The he added one more finger. It felt like a lot. Maybe a little too much. Yet strangely, not enough. Nowhere near enough when he grazed against his prostate and the strange pang of pleasure shot through him.

Fuck it.

He reached for the dildo and slicked it up liberally. Maybe some of the adrenaline pounding through him could be attributed to anxiety. Panic. Because it had been a long time since he'd had anything like a dick inside him. He was out of practice. He'd be tight. It would probably hurt a little bit.

A long inhale, a long exhale, Will tried to relax. Tried to think about soothing, calming, blankness. He held the dildo by the base and nudged the tip against his hole. Not really applying much pressure, just getting used to the feeling. The insistent stretch.

Somebody was panting raggedly. Probably him. A quick glance towards the doorway told him Hannibal was still the kitchen. Good. Maybe it was better he didn't see this part. If he were there, Will would rush. Eager to prove how badly he wanted it.

Instead, he let himself take it at a more reasonable pace.

Pressed the fake cock in with just a bit more intention. Yes. Pain. Burning. Breathe through it.

Of course the caged animal sort of feeling started to happen. Just wanting to get _away_. To get the intrusion _out_. But Will didn't let the fear consume him. The dildo slid forward unexpectedly. Past the first tight ring of muscle. Will grunted. His muscles ached with the stretch. But he sighed. The most difficult part was over.

He gave himself a moment, so that the throb subsided a little bit. Then he pressed the cock in a bit further. Still uncomfortable. Still odd. His internal muscles grabbed at it, tensed around it.

But after a little bit, they started to relax. The clear sensation of pain started to get muddy with hints of something else. The tip of the dildo nudged against the right spot. That little bundle of nerve endings, and Will moaned quietly.

_Ugh._

"Very good, William," Hannibal's voice came smooth and syrupy across the quiet of the room.

Will didn't remember closing his eyes, but he opened them. The older man leaned against the doorway with folded arms. Eyes large and dark. Maybe like wells into some deep, wet ground. Something that Will could fall into and never be able to escape.

A whole new wave of heat crashed through him. He pressed the dildo all the way in, panting. Awaiting further instructions.

"Put your hands above your head. Wrists together." Hannibal strode into the room calmly, loosening his tie.

Will obeyed immediately, letting himself sink into soft compliance. Hannibal removed his tie and looped it around Will's wrists. He doubled it over. Tied a few knots. The restraint was quite secure. Different than rope—the silk pressed nicely against his skin. He felt a vague urge to struggle, just to feel how trapped he was, but he refrained.

Hannibal smiled, dipping down to place one chaste, close mouthed kiss on Will's lips. Then he stepped back. Put several feet between them.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the remote. Another surge of dizzying anticipation swelled underneath Will's ribcage. The moment drew out long and torturous. Hannibal just standing there, eyes trailing over Will's naked body appraisingly.

"If I gave you a safeword, would you use it? Be honest," Hannibal raised his eyebrows.

"No," Will whispered.

"I thought as much," Hannibal nodded. "Then it is up to me to decide when you've had enough. That's quite a large responsibility."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Your submission is beautiful, Will. It is complete. I only hope I don't betray the supreme trust you've put in me."

And with that, Hannibal pressed a button on the remote.

The vibration started at a fairly low setting. But god. It was right against Will's prostate. Pressing into it, teasing horribly. Fuck. The spikes of sensation ricocheted through Will's body. He squirmed. He couldn't help it.

He made the mistake of opening his mouth and a high-pitched keening noise escaped him. Too much. He couldn't handle it—and they'd only just started.

"Relax, Will," Hannibal soothed, "just give in to the pleasure. Let it consume you. If you fight it, it might become painful."

Will tried to relax. He really did. Tried to focus on the building tension. The wonderful ache deep inside him.

Then the vibration started to get more intense. Faster. It nearly knocked the wind out of him.

"Oh _god_," he moaned.

"There is no god, Will. Only me. I am your master, your savior, and your executioner."

_Fuck_.

The words settled on his skin, caressing him softly. They shouldn't feel so wonderful. Shouldn't be so arousing. This was screwed up.

But the utter helplessness of it all… it pushed him closer and closer to the edge with each passing second. He wondered how long he could stay on the verge of orgasm. Possibly for an indefinite amount of time. He'd never come through prostate stimulation alone. He always needed that extra push. He always needed to touch his cock.

The dildo continued to press against his prostate—teasing him with incredible jolts of sensation. He writhed around. Not sure if he was trying to escape it or get _more_.

"_Hannibal_," it came out as a ragged little whimper.

The older man responded by turning up the vibrator. Will couldn't be sure whether he was moaning or crying. In the past, he'd wished an orgasm could last forever. Except… that seemed to be what was currently happening. He was trapped in the moments of intense pressure before the imminent release.

Except the release never happened.

"Please, Sir… I can't…"

"You can, William. You're going to orgasm like this, or not at all."

Just when he thought the vibrator was already on the highest setting, it got faster. His whole body shook with it. He writhed and made almost inhuman noises. He couldn't take it. The exquisite pleasure had become indiscernible from agony.

Every muscle in his body tensed. He was going to die. Just cease to exist. He stopped breathing. His mind went utterly blank.

All he could hear was the dull noise of the vibrator and his own heart, throbbing in his ears. He floated above himself. Caged inside his own skull.

He lingered for a few seconds in suspended reality. Time stopped. It felt a lot like freefall. Those dreadful moments where gravity loses its grip and nothing is real.

And then, release.

It felt like shattering. His internal muscles clenched in a series of delirious spasms. His cock jerked, smearing his stomach with stripes of milky ejaculate. The pleasure crashed through his nervous system—a massive dump of reward chemicals that left him spinning out. Each breath was shaky. He felt almost feverish.

The vibration stopped abruptly.

It took him a few minutes, just lying there, drowning in sensation, before he could come back to himself. Hannibal hadn't moved from his spot near the bed. He seemed to be lost too. Just staring at Will the way somebody might look at a painting. Examining. Trying to memorize and pick out the intricate details.

"Sir," Will said quietly. "Would you mind untying me?"

Hannibal seemed to snap out of it. He approached carefully and untied Will's wrists. Then he reached down between Will's legs and slowly pulled out the vibrator. It made an obscene, slick noise as it popped out.

Will contemplated sitting up. But his bones felt like they'd been boiled to the point of softness. He wasn't sure he'd be able to move for a while. Too shaky.

"Do you feel sated?" Hannibal asked, straightening up again.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you."

Hannibal smiled vaguely. He carded his fingers through Will's hair. "You're beautiful at the moment of utter destruction. I should be thanking _you_."

Will didn't know exactly what those words meant. He supposed it didn't matter. He let himself drift. Exhausted, and full of strange silence. All the howling monsters of his mind seemed momentarily banished.

And yet, he still got a strange sense of foreboding.

_I'm your executioner._

He looked up into the chiseled lines of Hannibal's face. He saw nothing. An impenetrable wall of stone. No emotion to empathize with. All he saw was the strange heat in the older man's eyes. The desire. Lust. Flickering dangerously—a promise and a threat.

Perhaps something showed on Will's face. His apprehension. His confusion. Because Hannibal's expression quickly slid into something more calming. A sort of tenderness radiated from the older man's body language. Affection. Protectiveness.

But his eyes stayed the same.

Will found the clashing signals to be thrilling and horrific in the same breath.

* * *

Sometimes, when Will woke up in the middle of the night covered in sweat—he forgot where he was. The sticky heat gripped him and tugged him back in time. Back to strange, half-remembered Louisiana summers. Back to crowded churches with no air conditioning. Back to muggy mornings, and mosquito-filled water fronts. Learning to fish on the bayou. Spending the night in abandoned buildings with a bottle of stolen Jack Daniels and three our four other local urchins. Hearing vague murmurs about voodoo from the old women who kept garlic wreathes above their doors and lines of salt on their windowsills.

When Will was just a boy, he still believed in magic.

Not the ridiculous kind of magic that involved elves and fairies and dragons. No. In the backwoods of Louisiana, Will developed a reverent fear of darker things. Zombies. Witches. The lurking shadows that occasionally stepped out of nightmares and snatched life away from innocents.

He was only fourteen when he stumbled across his first crime scene.

He'd been out in the woods. Chasing after a stray mutt he'd been feeding over the past few days—trying to get him to be a bit less flighty. He'd stumbled into a clearing, and the smell was the first thing that hit him.

Rotten meat. Like the dumpster behind a butcher's shop. He'd stumbled. Coughed. Blinked. And then he'd seen it.

The body, lying on a tree stump—completely gutted. Eyes wide in horror, looking skyward forever more.

The words _sacrificial lamb_ had floated across Will's mind inexplicably. But that's what the scene felt like. A sacrifice. A desperate prayer to some higher power. A last resort. A cry into the night before judgment day.

He'd looked at the body and felt his heart stop. It wasn't a child, but it wasn't an adult either. A boy… probably about his age. He'd blinked and he saw time in reverse. All the cuts on the body undone. Until the boy was still alive. Squirming, screaming. His hands and feet tied. His bonds looped around stakes nailed into the ground.

Then the figure above him. Deranged. He didn't want to do this. There was no choice. The evil was coming for him. God was wrathful, demanded a sacrifice to keep the demons at bay. And so… he must send this lamb to slaughter.

Will opened his eyes and he threw up. His stomach heaved so violently he had to drop down to all fours. He'd felt as if he'd been holding the knife. Ripping into flesh. He emptied his stomach and continued to heave.

When he could stand, he ran. He ran and ran and didn't look back.

A few weeks later, he'd seen the article in the paper. Teenaged boys going missing. No leads. And he knew. He _knew_ he'd stumbled across one of the bodies. But who could he tell? He didn't know much.

Just that the police should be looking for a deeply religious and deeply disturbed individual. Perhaps someone with a terminal illness, or a history of mental imbalance. He felt like he'd worn a killer's skin and couldn't shake it off.

He fell into a sort of depression. Stopped leaving his house to do much other than go to church and pray to forget what he'd seen.

He didn't forget. But he did find something. Late in the afternoon, kneeling on a pew in an otherwise empty church… a man had come and sat down in the aisle across from him. Will had looked sideways and just _known_.

The nervous ticks. The man was thin, gaunt, kept repeatedly glancing over his shoulder. And then he looked over at Will and stared _hungrily_. It had sent chills down his spine when he met the man's eyes and known he was looking into the eyes of a killer.

The man began to pray. To murmur frantically. Will didn't move. Couldn't move. Even though he knew he was in danger. This man might try to kidnap him. Take him out to the woods and gut him like he'd gutted all the rest.

"What are you praying for?" He'd asked in a strange moment of resignation.

The man had tensed. Looked over. Like he wasn't even sure Will was real. He looked around. Twitchy. Scared.

"I'm praying for the voices to stop," the man said quietly. "They whisper incessantly. Day and night. They're coming for all of us, you know. To drag us down into the dark."

Will licked his lips, and idea catching in his head. A way he could survive this.

"Yes, I know. I hear them too. I'm one of them."

The man went completely still. Looked at Will, eyes wide in terror.

"I know what you've done," Will continued. "Killed all those boys. Trying to get your precious God to save you. But here I am, in his house. I've come for you and he isn't doing anything about it."

"Lord forgive me," the man breathed, crossing himself.

"It's too late for that. But I'll give you a choice." Will raised his eyebrows. "You can walk across the street to the Sherriff's station and admit to everything you've done. I'll spare your life for a little while. Let you live out your misery in a cell. Or I can take you now. I can drag you down into the darkness where the voices will scream forever."

The man stared for a moment, then he nodded. He stood quietly and left the church. Will ran all the way home. He locked his doors and sat in his closet, holding his father's gun, paranoid for days.

Until he saw in the paper that they'd caught the killer. The man had just walked in and confessed to all his crimes. Given details nobody else would have known. Young boys stopped disappearing.

Will had caught a serial killer and stopped him.

Perhaps that was the moment he stopped believing in zombies, but started seeing the horror of humanity. It disturbed and sickened him—that he could try on a killer's mind and understand why they'd done what they'd done. But though his gift was dark, it could also save lives. He wanted to save lives. Perhaps to save himself. To seek salvation from all the terrible things he began to see.

After months and years… he began to understand what that first killer had told him. The voices of the dead screamed in Will's mind at all hours of the lonely night. But he was different. Because he heard the voices and found ways to stop their screaming. He caught those responsible, and often that was enough.

Sometimes, however, he couldn't shake the feeling that he himself was a sacrificial lamb. That he hadn't actually escaped that day in the church and that his entire life was a flash of madness as he died stretched over a tree stump—eyes flung skyward—an offering to appease a twisted concept of the Lord.

* * *

Will became lucid in his bathroom. He ached. Hannibal leaned over the bathtub, turning on the faucet. Steam rose from the water. Will looked at himself in the mirror. Filthy. Covered in dirt. His t-shirt was torn, snagged with brambles. He was bleeding. His feet were sore. Cut.

Must have been sleepwalking.

"I… what happened to me?" He asked, groggy. Confused.

"I came over to make you dinner and your dogs were frantic. I let them out and they tracked you into the woods. I suspect you fell asleep on the couch and unconsciously went for a little walk, without shoes, or pants on."

Will digested that for a minute. It wouldn't be the first time he woke up far away from his house with no idea how he got there. But the fact that Hannibal found him… carried him back… used his own dogs to track him… he wasn't sure whether to find that comforting or disturbing.

"Strip," Hannibal said gently.

Will obeyed. Of course he did. He tugged off his shirt and winced slightly. Slid out of his grey briefs. Let them fall into the floor. Hannibal helped him into the bath. Into the warm, soothing water. It stung where his flesh was torn. But Will didn't really mind.

Hannibal sat on the edge of the bathtub, sleeves rolled up, slowly running a washcloth over Will's chest. Washing the dirt away. His motions were calm and clinical. Like a doctor. Like a surgeon. But that didn't change anything. Will still felt the prickling anticipation—because he was naked, and Hannibal was touching him.

He stayed perfectly still, afraid he'd ruin the moment as Hannibal washed him. Washed his face. His legs. His feet. The water turned darker as Will became clean. They'd have to put antiseptic on his cuts. But that could wait a little longer.

Because Hannibal trailed the washcloth up Will's inner thigh and brushed against his erection. The older man let out a low chuckle.

"You're aroused."

"Really? I hadn't noticed." Will bit his lip, choking slightly on his own sarcasm.

Everything was a surrealist painting, swimming around him. He'd fallen into the mind of Salvador Dali and he couldn't climb back out. Lights and colors. The heat radiating off Hannibal's body.

Was he really awake? Could he still be out in the woods somewhere? Cold, wandering unconsciously…

Hannibal let go of the washcloth. It floated. Then everything happened too quickly to think about it. Hannibal's fingers wrapped around Will's cock, stroking him. The younger man let out a small choked noise. He had to keep himself from flailing around in shock.

He didn't think he'd ever be allowed to have this. The pleasure shot through him like an electric pulse. Hannibal's grip was tight and sure, focusing pressure around the head of Will's prick. He breathed much too quickly. This was going to be over far too soon.

"You're still bleeding," Hannibal whispered softly, right next to Will's ear. "You have no idea what it does to me."

Without warning, Hannibal leaned in and bit Will hard on the neck—those wonderful sharp canines broke the skin. Will gasped. He was already a mess of pinpricked pain. Hannibal's tongue laving over the bite mark made him shudder.

So fucking close. Every movement of Hannibal's fist around his cock was crescendo of impossible sensation.

"Oh—oh fuck—" Will gasped, "I'm going to—"

"That's it. Come for me." Hannibal murmured against Will's neck.

Collecting tension. Almost painful. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His entire consciousness narrowed down to the lurch right before release.

Will shuddered, let go. The pleasure sang through him. His body felt like a burning building. Crackling and caving as every pulse rang through him. Milky white pearls of ejaculate trailed through the water. The world blinked away.

Will fell.

Or maybe, Hannibal pushed him backwards.

Splash.

The water closed around him, rushed in overhead. Hannibal's strong hand on Will's chest. Hannibal's fingers tangled in Will's hair. Holding him under. Will thrashed, and Hannibal's grip tightened in a warning.

Then the younger man went utterly still. Closed his eyes. The darkness buzzed. The water seemed to have a heart beat. A strange, dull silence throbbed in his ears. His lungs began to ache. No air. Panic. Fight. Survive.

But Will did not struggle. He just lay there. Going progressively more limp. Tired. He was so tired. Wrung out after the orgasm. Most parts of him hurt. Still bleeding. The bite mark on his neck stung especially deep.

Drowning. Hannibal was actually drowning him. The lurking fear in his subconscious had manifested into reality. And now that the moment had arrived, Will found he was almost prepared for it.

The pain buzzed in every nerve ending. Death hurt. The inescapable fact of existence. The exit would always be horrific. He couldn't breathe through it. Didn't open his mouth to let the water in. Because he wasn't quite resigned to it.

His thoughts began to slip away into dull murmurs. Everything swirled, vague and dreamlike.

Then a great upheaval. He broke the surface of the water once again. Hannibal had dragged him upwards. He gasped for air, spluttered. His heart raced like a marathon runner. His veins rushed full of adrenaline, mingling with the sexual reward chemicals.

What a fucking _rush_.

Dizzy, he couldn't focus. Hannibal's arms around him. Even though he was wet. Messy. A large, soothing hand stroking across his back.

Will realized he was trembling. Crying? Maybe. Yes. Definitely yes. Not because he was scared or sad. Just the sheer overwhelming intensity of the moment... he couldn't take it...

"It's all right, Will," Hannibal whispered, "I've got you... you're a good boy... such a good boy."

Eventually, hannibal pulled Will out of the water. Smeared antiseptic on his various cuts and scrapes. Bandaged him up. Deposited him in bed. Even after Hannibal had left, Will's world still spun. Felt oddly surreal.

The funny thing about a near death experience is how it makes you question your concepts of reality.

The funny thing about a near death experience when you're already pretty goddamned far from normal existence, is how it makes everything oddly clear.

_I'm your executioner_.

Hannibal was the most dangerous kind of sadist in existence. The kind that was normally soft-spoken and gentle. The kind you'd never suspect. It only leaked out around the edges when he got so into the moment, that he couldn't control himself.

His rare outbursts were like heroin to Will's martyr complex. He'd chase the rush for all he was worth until he quit, or until it killed him.

This seemed like the sort of realization that should bother him.

It didn't.

* * *

_God. I didn't mean to. I just... well how is this ship ever not going to be screwy? Thanks so much for all the comments and kudos and whatnot. You guys are awesome! I think there's one more chapter of this. And don't worry. I love Will. He is my puppy. I'm not actually going to kill him._

_I think the next update will be roughly two weeks from now. You can always pop by my tumblr. I post a story update schedule every Monday._

_Until next time!_

_xoxo_


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